2. Maya
2
Maya
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck.
I pace behind the curtain, nausea rolling through me as I frantically read over my notecards, mentally preparing myself for the talk I’m about to give on…well, me. My upbringing, my career, my journey to becoming one of the youngest founders of a Black woman-owned literary law firm in the country.
I’m honored, and no doubt deserving, considering the work I’ve put into getting here, but goddammit , I hate public speaking.
“Miss Atler?” one of the event assistants asks. “Five minutes until you’re introduced.”
I nod, continuing to pace.
“Oh, and someone left a gift for you back here. It’s on your chair.”
That has me pausing. I scurry over to the small dressing area they had set up backstage, my heels clicking against the floor impatiently. Sure enough, sitting on my chair is a bouquet of mixed pink and red flowers, stems wrapped in a pink ribbon.
A box of Tart Hearts sits beside the flowers, the holiday candy we shared last time we were together. Lastly, a pink card is tucked into the petals of the flowers. I step up to them, slipping it out and opening it.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
This Valentine’s Day
I want to be with you
Break a leg, Maya baby
– pretty boy
Clearly, it was a pre-printed card picked up from a grocery store, with the last line crossed out, his message hand-written and signed at the bottom.
Easton Mason.
A name I haven’t thought or heard in such a long time, but a pleasant one, nonetheless. It has been a long, long time; I can count the number of conversations we’ve had on one hand since the night he was inside me.
I blew him off after we had sex in the library that night, because although it—to this day—is arguably the best sex I’ve ever had, and taking that risk with him is the most alive I’d felt in years, as soon as it was over, I knew I was at a high risk of falling too far in with him. I quite literally couldn’t afford the distraction—my scholarships and my law school acceptance relied on total focus.
I kept him at arm’s-length after that and have avoided thinking about him ever since. I’ve always been a little afraid I hurt him. I think Easton felt the same way about me that I did about him, except he was all in—ready to take the risk. I knew that before I had sex with him, and I did it anyway because I was desperate to feel something, not expecting Easton Mason to make me feel everything .
Including guilt for pushing him away afterward because a relationship at that time would’ve been detrimental to my future.
In the back of my mind, I’ve always kind of assumed he hates me now, but familiar nicknames, the candy from that night, and the flowers wishing me luck have a smile tugging at my lips, my nerves momentarily forgotten.
Is he here?
I know from mutual college friends that he attended law school at the University of Oregon before returning to Boise to work for the same firm he interned with during our junior year.
I’ve attended the American Bar Association conference every year since I founded Atler and Associates, and I’ve never heard of Easton Mason being in attendance.
“Miss Atler,” the event assistant says, breaking my thoughts. “We’re ready for you.”
That moment of peace vanishes, sharpness shooting through my stomach, sending my heart in a chaotic rhythm as it thrashes against my chest. My vision feels tunneled, my legs trembling as I turn around, forcing a smile at the girl. “Alright.”
I take a deep breath before following her to the curtain. She peeks her head behind the stage as we listen to a mentor and former professor of mine introduce me to the crowd before applause begins. She exits the other end of the stage, and suddenly, the curtain is being ripped aside, exposing me to blinding lights and loud crowds.
I take one more breath, hearing my heels click upon the floor as I walk out to the center and turn to face the audience head-on. My stomach is in my throat, and I suddenly regret that I didn’t pee before coming out here. My hands are shaking as I grip the edge of the podium, breath short and fast when I lean into the mic. I know that the moment I use my voice, it’s going to be trembling, giving away my fear to everyone in the room.
The audience politely claps as I allow myself to countdown from three before I jump in and begin speaking, no matter how bad I’ll sound. It’s when a deafening whistle echoes through the auditorium that my eyes snap from my shaking hands to the crowd in front of me.
All I can make out are silhouettes blocked by the stage lights, but as I scan the seats, I’m caught on one figure sitting three rows back on the far end.
Easton Mason is standing, slowly pulling two fingers from his mouth, flashing me that megawatt smile I always adored. He raises his hand, giving me a small wave.
I know the cheesiest grin is stretching my face, and suddenly, it’s not nerves providing the swirling sensation inside my body, but the familiar flap of butterfly wings.
I begin to speak, and my voice is steady and strong.
My eyes stay on him the entire time.